


My love is as a fever

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Comfort, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Flu, Fluff, I wrote this when I was sick, Nurses, Sickfic, Temperatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 18:42:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13324212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: Jack has been struck down. Not by a crook, a criminal or a really bad egg, but by a viral infection. It’s really quite good a thing that Phryne used to be a nurse, though...Set sometime during season 3, after episode 5.





	My love is as a fever

**Author's Note:**

> I am ill, therefore so is Jack.  
> -DVW

_‘My love is as a fever, longing still_  
_For that which longer nurseth the disease,_  
_Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,_  
_The uncertain sickly appetite to please.’_

— William Shakespeare, Sonnet 147

 

Jack was hot. No, scratch that. He was positively sweltering. About to sweat right out of his own skin. It was unfortunate for him that – apart from his actual skin – he had no other layers left to shed. At some point during the night he’d taken off his pyjamas, flinging them to some indeterminate part of his bedroom. His smalls had, apparently, followed some time shortly after.

He was currently propped up against the headboard of his double bed, pillows stuffed in the hollow of his back, trying to catch some much needed sleep. As much sleep as this thrice damned virus would allow. This past night had been awful; he’d been terrorized by his fever as night sweats had caused him to twist and turn in his sleep.

His feverish dreams were even more worrisome than his regular ones, as a certain Lady Detective had starred in them quite prominently. In one of them, he’d been back at his old home, the one he’d once shared with Rosie. He’d been, in fact, kissing Rosie until her skin had changed into an ivory tone, her dress turning into an expensive beaded number and her hair suddenly a short, raven-coloured bob. He’d been kissing Miss Fisher, _Phryne_ , and there had been no Café or murderer in sight this time around.

In the next one, he had been unable to reach her in time, and he’d lost her to the clutches of Murdoch Foyle. He’d woken up to the image of her bloodied body; his own had been drenched in sweat. He’d managed to somehow change his sheets before succumbing to another troublesome dream.

Then again, it hadn’t been troublesome. It had been arousing, but that in and of itself was quite troublesome, indeed.

She’d been on stage, performing her fan dance at the gentleman’s club. Nothing had seemed amiss, until the crowd faded into black and it was only the two of them in the room. She’d beckoned him with one dainty finger, dropping the fans altogether and baring her body to him. Her porcelain skin, her chest rapidly rising and falling, those beautiful breasts capped with rosy nipples – a shade darker than her naked lips, he’d noted – and he had just reached the stage, reached up to cup those lovely mounds and lavish them with his tongue when he was roused from his sleep by the milkman at the front door, clanging the empty milk bottles and replacing them with full ones.

He was almost afraid of going back to sleep again, but his body had demanded it, and so he found himself in a state of half-sleep, where he was somewhat aware of his surroundings, but almost blissfully unaware of the state of his battered body.

It would have been blissful, if he weren’t constantly plagued by images of Phryne bloody Fisher, traipsing around in his mind with barely any clothes on.

“My _word_ , Jack, if I would have known that all it would take was a little infection to get you out of that stiff suit, I would’ve called upon Mac’s less benign services ages ago.”

And apparently, now he was hearing her voice, too.

He tried to focus his bleary, itching eyes as he opened them, taking in the form of the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, standing in his hallway.

She simply stared at him, unabashedly and unapologetically, from where she was leaning against the doorframe, a hamper on her hip. She looked remarkably domestic. She cocked her head sideways, reminiscent of the way she’d done so when ogling him in his bathing costume, back in Queenscliff (oh yes, he’d noticed, he just had been unsure of what to do about it), before unconsciously wetting her lips, her gaze shifting downwards.

He suddenly realised with horror that his sheet had slipped sometime during his restless slumber and it was now slung dangerously low on his hips, revealing far more than he’d ever intended.

(Well, at this point in time, anyway.)

Her eyes were hot on the trail of the coarse, wiry hair on his lower abdomen that disappeared below the sheet and for just a second, their eyes met. Hers heated, his red-rimmed and feverish. He then pulled the sheet up to his chin with fierce determination and she blinked, seemingly remembering why she was even here in the first place, dismissing the entire delicate affair in the literal blink of an eye.

And come to think of it: _why_ was she here? In his _home_? In his _bedroom_? He didn’t even bother to appear surprised at her having unearthed his home address, having given up long ago on trying to decipher her unorthodox methods when it came to gathering information. Let alone how she’d actually managed to gain entry to his property, although he suspected certain lock picking skills.

“Why are you here, Miss Fisher?” he asked in a raspy, sleepy voice as she entered his bedroom with her usual aplomb. She was a vision in blue and white silks and scarves underneath her beige driving coat, which she draped across the back of the single chair in his bedroom – along with her beige hat – before rolling up the sleeves of her semi-transparent blouse. She opened the curtains halfway as the scent of French perfume and something uniquely _Phryne_ wafted through the air.

He was suddenly terribly self-conscious of the state of his body. He had to smell awful, surely? He had showered last night (and was terribly grateful for indoor plumbing), but with all the night sweats he was fairly certain he wasn’t going to come out of this smelling of roses.

“Why, Jack, because you’re ill, of course! Hugh told Dot you’d been struck down, and knowing you, you would probably suffer all on your own without anyone to look after you. And well, lo and behold, here you are.” she commented, whilst waving a hand in his general direction as she headed for his bathroom.

 _Damn Collins_. He muttered something unintelligible against the sheet.

“What was that?” she called from the bathroom, over the sound of running water.

Lowering the sheet to rest upon his shoulders, he grunted.

“I said: I’m _fine_.” He managed to get out the sentence before a coughing fit took hold of his already weakened body, the forced exhalations wreaking havoc as she re-entered the bedroom.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re not fine.” She reached out to place the back of her pale hand on his clammy forehead, leaning over and presenting him with a rather spectacular view of her décolletage. “You have a fever, too.” she stated, a small worry line forming on her forehead, gazing at the wall behind his headboard as he tried very hard not to stare at her breasts. She placed a cold, wet flannel across his forehead, immediately soothing his burning skin, before leaning in closer, placing her hands upon his shoulders. He inhaled sharply as she pushed his upper body to lean forward slightly, plumping up the pillows before allowing him to recline once more.

His skin burned where she’d touched him, and it had nothing to do with his fever whatsoever. He felt perverse for being aroused when she was merely here to take care of him, whatever _that_ entailed.

“I had realised, Miss Fisher.” he quipped dryly, already missing the heat of her body even though his own was currently resembling a lit furnace.

“Well Jack, you _do_ know what they say about fevers...” she drawled, setting about unpacking the contents of the hamper she’d brought and setting them up on top of his chest of drawers, close to the bed; a thermos of tea, a cup, bread, several pieces of fruit, a bowl, utensils and a small pot which he assumed (hoped) contained a soup of some kind. He really ought to thank Mr. Butler the next time their paths crossed.

“They are miserable?” he croaked, not trusting his voice to speak because of a plethora of reasons. One being the way her well-cut white trousers clung to her shapely arse.

“Yes, well, there is that. But they can also be rather enjoyable.”  
  
He raised his eyebrow at her elegant back for good measure.  
  
“Don’t look at me like that.” He smirked, despite his discomfort. “The increase in body temperature can result in some rather... _pleasurable_ experiences.” She turned to face him, delivering the final piece of her sentence with an expression that was devoid of any emotion. Well, that is, if he were to ignore the positively devious twinkle in her eyes. He was strongly reminded of one of their most recent cases; the morgue, the Percussor, a Chinese brothel…

His brow furrowed in utter confusion. How could anything about this fever be pleasurable? Unless she meant—  
  
“Especially for a man, what with the orifices of a woman being particularly—”  
  
_Of course_ that’s what she meant.  
  
“Yes, all right, Miss Fisher!” he snapped, then coughed, attempting to sound admonishing and missing the mark by a mile. His manhood stirred beneath the sheet at her mention of ‘feminine orifices’. He rather suspected she had a very particular set of feminine orifices in mind, namely her own. There would be no way to cover up a full-fledged erection with only the thin cloth covering his damp body, so he took a few deep, calming breaths.

 _Aunt Prudence in a bathing costume_.

He sighed as the tension in his loins subsided. She eyed him suspiciously.

“I think your fever may have just gone up again. This is no good, Jack. I’ll stay here for the afternoon to look after you and tidy up the place, and then I’ll come back in the morning. And if you’re a good patient, I might even throw in a nice sponge bath.” she added with a wink.

“ _Phryne_ , really, that won’t be necessary.” He sounded exhausted, even to his own ears, and he was very aware of his current state of undress as she took in the sight of him. The sheet obviously did very little to cover his modesty, or the outline of his body.

“Jack, _must_ you be so contrary?” she sighed as she bustled around the room, gathering his strewn clothing (including his underwear, he noted with acute mortification) and placing it in the laundry basket in his bathroom without a modicum of embarrassment or awkwardness.

“Honestly, Miss Fisher, I will be fine. A few more days in bed and I’ll be as right as—”  
  
He sneezed four times, reaching for his crumpled handkerchief and attempting to blow his nose in a somewhat dignified manner. He failed miserably, but she didn’t seem to care. She appeared to be far more interested in the way that the sheet had slipped during his sneezing, baring his chest to her hungry gaze.  
  
He yanked it back up, even though the stifling heat of being covered up was hardly an improvement on being ogled at. The burning intensity with which she was taking in the parts of his naked body that were revealed to her made him wonder if his fever was actually getting worse.  
  
“— as rain. You should go home, though. I would not want for you to get sick, as well.” he rasped, his lungs protesting against any type of exertion.  
  
“Don’t be silly, Jack. I don’t _do_ ‘sick’. I find it does not agree with me, at all.” she stated resolutely, before sitting down next to him on the side of the bed, feeding him Mr. Butler’s magnificent broth until the entire bowl was empty.

* * *

  
Two weeks later, he brought her homemade chicken soup (his grandmother’s recipe) and read Shakespeare to her, sitting in a chair at her bedside (he’d drawn the proverbial line at Lady Chatterley). At first, he’d politely declined Mr. Butler’s kind suggestion to deliver the soup to her boudoir himself, but after one look at her, laying in her large bed – stuffy,  red nose, a feverish blush adorning her apple cheeks and her sleek bob in complete disarray – he couldn’t find it in his heart to deny her. She was absolutely charming and adorable, even (or maybe especially) when she wasn’t trying to be.  
  
The fact that she was only wearing a deep red camisole and a matching pair of rather short tap pants – matching the colour of her blushing cheeks – may or may not have been a deciding factor.

He wondered how far down that blush extended, then admonished himself.

After protesting profusely, he’d eventually lain down on the bed beside her as the night wore on; her underneath the thin, white sheet (he’d insisted she pull it back up to cover herself, not trusting his own body; she’d smirked), him on top of it, reclining on the fur throw, save for his shoes and suit jacket. She was curled up against his side, listening to his low rumble as he read to her, the only light in the room coming from the bedside lamp next to him on the nightstand.  
  
He found she didn’t moan, didn’t complain and didn’t protest at all to being coddled (although he suspected the fever could have something to do with that). She simply lay there, smiling contentedly, her eyes closed, her dark lashes like small, black feathers against the creaminess of her skin, the fevered heat of her body scorching him through the crisp cloth.  
  
She continued to smile that silly smile until she’d fallen asleep, her arm flung ungracefully across his chest, her face burrowed in his shirt. He gently set about untangling himself from her limp body—  
  
“You know, Jack...”  
  
—and froze mid-untangle, looking down at her. For a second he questioned his own sanity, as he almost admired the way in which she managed to look positively mischievous when bedridden with influenza. He felt one hot little hand make its way up his thigh, squeezing it as she licked her lips, her gaze hooded. He swallowed, hard. Her skin was damp and flushed, although he seriously doubted this was all due to her fever. His throat suddenly felt rather constricted, and so did his pants.  
  
 “...about that body temperature thing... ”

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to apologize profusely for the random ficlets my temperature is producing.


End file.
